


Fourth Age fancies (plus two Third Age detours)

by LadyRo



Series: Tales from the Fourth Age (chronological) [8]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRo/pseuds/LadyRo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the month of May I set myself the small challenge of writing at least 300 words every day.</p><p>1. Stay: Some stories about their time in the Houses of Healing they did not tell the Ringbearer.<br/>2. A final first: A young daughter gives her father a bittersweet greeting.<br/>3. Twins: Grief and joy mingle on Nénimë 26.<br/>4. Mail: A letter from the Shire holds strong words for Faramir.<br/>5. Surprise visit: While handling the paperwork for the fief in Faramir's absence, Éowyn is interrupted by a rider from the city.<br/>6. The assault at Amon Pië: A peace mission goes awry – or so the twins claim.<br/>7. Demands and duties: The task of cleansing Minas Morgul strains a marriage to its breaking point.<br/>8. A horseman's birthday: Éowyn and Faramir's eldest son finally gets to ride his first pony.<br/>9. Steward spats: Brother and sister do not see eye to eye on who should hold the office next.<br/>10. Homesick: Eowyn longs to return home after her captivity in the region of Umbar.<br/>11. A walking ghost: Faramir's first visit to Edoras results in many second glances.<br/>12. [Title goes here]: Elerrína returns from Annúminas with more than an unannounced husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay (May 1)

_Súlimë 24, Third Age 3019_

As darkness fell and the sundown bells rang on the sixth evening after Aragorn and the Host of the West set off on the last march to the Black Gate of Mordor, a healer knocked on the door to Faramir's chamber in the Houses of Healing and, upon recognition, entered.

“Lord Faramir, I am sorry to call on you, but Lady Éowyn asks that you come speak with her. I cautioned her that it was too late an hour to begin one of the long talks you and she often share; nonetheless, she was insistent."

Faramir nodded and set the empty cup he held on its saucer atop the small stand next to his bed. “I will go to her,” he replied.

-*-

[Continue reading as a standalone story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6715945). (I liked it so much that I couldn't wait an entire month to post it.)


	2. A final first (May 2)

_Narquelië, Fourth Age 13_

Éowyn stood in the courtyard of Dol Arandur as she waited to welcome Faramir on a crisp autumn evening. In her arms she held their fourth and last child, a raven-haired girl with bright gray eyes who would celebrate her first birthday in a few weeks. Prince and steward had been gone only four days, but much had changed at home in that time. 

His chestnut horse neighed and tossed its head as he rode in and dismounted, red-brown leaves crunching under his boots. Faramir rubbed the stallion's neck as a groom led the horse away and then turned his attention to his beloved ladies.

“Welcome home, my love,” Éowyn greeted him. “Elerrína has something she wants to show you.”

“What is that?” he asked. He began to walk toward them but stopped short as Éowyn bent and set their daughter on her tiny feet. The girl wobbled for a moment as she gained her balance, hands holding tightly to her mother's fingers. A pained look crossed Faramir's face but was replaced by a wide smile with such speed that Éowyn questioned whether she had actually seen it. He crouched and held out his arms. “Come to me, my beautiful Elerrína.”

The girl cooed and clung to her mother a moment longer before setting out on swaying legs. She needed to totter only a few steps until Faramir was able to scoop her up and stand again. 

“Well done, brave girl,” he said before kissing her cheek. She squealed and flung her arms around his neck, babbling in her toddler language. He chuckled and in one long stride crossed the distance to where Éowyn stood. “You were supposed to keep her little a while longer,” he said softly as he slipped his free arm around his wife. Now she saw that indeed some sadness was mixed with the pride in his eyes, emotions that matched her own.

“An impossible task,” Éowyn replied gently. “She wants to join in her brothers' adventures, and they do not move at any pace slower than a run.”


	3. Twins (May 3, 20)

_Nénimë 26, Fourth Age 10_

Teherin smiled warmly as she met him halfway up the staircase. “Congratulations, my lord.”

“Thank you!” he replied and moved to pass her, but she lightly placed a hand on his arm. He stopped and gave her a questioning look.

“I must make a difficult request,” she said. As his grin faded and concern rose in his eyes, she shook her head. “All is well, but if you can bear to wait a little while longer, do so. Your lady had a long and difficult night, and now she is enjoying a few minutes of sleep before your–” The healer's face took on a rare mischievous expression.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Before your sons demand her attention again.”

Faramir's grin returned. The news and his own sleepless night of anxious journeying from Minas Tirith combined to make him feel lightheaded, and suddenly he found himself sinking to sit on the stairs. He rested his head against the bannister and gazed up toward the room that held his heart. “Twins. Sons,” he murmured. Over the past months many signs had pointed to the likelihood of twins, but even though he had tried to prepare himself mentally for that, it was still a heavy reality.

“Éowyn is well and your children are well, though small and delicate,” Teherin assured him as she also took a seat on one of the steps. “Her labor had difficulties, but she carried through beautifully. Perhaps the hardest trial for her was the hour wait between first child's arrival and the second's.”

Faramir closed his eyes said softly, “I ask too much of her.”

“She has already forgiven you,” Teherin said, “but you would be wise to beg it of her anyway when she wakes.”

“She will like that,” he agreed. He opened his eyes as his expression turned thoughtful. “What a strange coincidence,” he continued. “Ever since the war I have looked ahead to this day and seen it clouded with grief, but now it will be filled with joy as well. My brother was slain on Amon Hen while defending the periain of the storied Fellowship eleven years ago, and recently I received letters from them in which they again conveyed their sorrow and gratefulness for his sacrifice. Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck...” His voice trailed off as he became lost in memories of what had been and thoughts of what might have been. After a while he shook himself slightly, glanced at the healer and noted her patient smile. “Forgive me. I am murmuring like a madman.”

Teherin shook her head. “A very coherent madman. But it is understandable if you are feeling a bit overwhelmed. Now, let me check and see whether your lady is awake and willing to see you.” She stood and ascended the steps. Soon Faramir heard a door open and then a sound that made his heart race: the demanding cry of a small voice he had never heard before. He wanted to leap up and rush to the room, but at the same time he was not sure his legs would support him. Instead he brushed away the first of the tears that had formed in his eyes. “Overwhelmed” Teherin had said, but that was too small a word for it, he thought.

“My lord?”

He jerked his head up and saw the healer at the top of the staircase.

“Come meet your sons.”

Whatever doubts he had about his strength had not been conveyed to his legs, because he easily rose and took the remaining stairs two at a time. In other houses there was restrained decorum regarding how fathers met their offspring, but in this matter he cared not for stuffy formalities. He had a family to tend to.


	4. Mail (May 4)

_Spring, Fourth Age 13_

Sunlight poured through the sitting room windows as the lord and lady of Ithilien enjoyed an hour of what had become rare silence in their home as their children slept. That morning an errand rider from Minas Tirith had delivered the stack of letters that now sat between them on a tea table. The writings contained the usual tidings of political developments that needed the steward's attention and greetings from their friends in the city, but also tucked among the packets were three letters out of the Shire: one each from Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, addressed to both Faramir and Éowyn, and one addressed to Faramir alone.

Éowyn gleefully read the letter out of Brandy Hall. Meriadoc had been named Master of Buckland during the previous year, and now he thanked her for the gifts she and Éomer had sent.

“The horse is settling in well, and often there is a line of hobbit children along the fence row to either watch him trot around or offer him carrots and other tidbits. I believe he is already a bit more stout than when you sent him.

“The goblets are truly magnificent, although Estella is afraid to use them. 'What if one of the emeralds falls out during the washing up?' she insists. So for now they are on display behind the glass doors of a hutch, and Estella takes care to dust them every day.”

She looked up from her letter and saw that Faramir was reading the Shire note addressed to him. His expression was grim. “Bad tidings?” she asked.

He glanced at her and shook his head slightly. “Whereas others would be careful to mask their sentiments, Master Brandybuck is taking me to task outright for the events of last year.” He handed her the single sheet of paper. “He also wants to know why he was not summoned when the riders were mustered to rescue you.”

“Because he would have come!” Éowyn said as she took the paper. “By the time the ships arrived in Umbar, he and Éomer would have convinced themselves that a full charge on Ihimbra was the only possible solution.”


	5. Surprise visit (May 5-6, 8)

_Late Cermië, Fourth Age 16_

The Lady of Ithilien closed her eyes and rubbed them wearily as she rested her head against the high-backed chair. How did Faramir not go mad reading the numerous reports, notices and other messages that arrived day after day? She did not mind and even welcomed other tasks that came with managing the princedom – such as riding out to evaluate the progress of building projects and inspecting the companies of rangers – but the paperwork quickly took its toll on her. Indeed, tolls were the current subject in her reading: fees for crossing the bridges over the lower Anduin into Lebennin.

Opening her eyes, Éowyn set the proposed revisions aside and gazed absently out the window of Faramir's study. As the day grew warm she had propped it open with the long, slender ash branch she had discovered in the nearby cabinet weeks ago. The sunbeams that had poured in earlier were gone, now falling on the other side of the house as another pleasant afternoon faded into evening. With each passing day she missed him more, and the end of this separation was still far off. 

Toward the close of the previous year, King Elessar had announced that he would journey north to dwell for a time at Annúminas on the shores of Lake Evendim. He intended to officially begin the restoration of the ancient city as his northern capital, and he also wanted to call upon old friends. Elessar and Evenstar had set out during the first week of Víressë in spite of the spring rains and did not plan to return until late autumn. With his duties as steward increased in the king's absence, Faramir had taken up residence in Minas Tirith, and twice a week errand riders carried letters from him to the lady at Dol Arandur. The messages contained few instructions regarding the princedom – he trusted her judgment in most matters – and instead were filled with questions and comments about his children's growth and activities. He had managed to return home for a couple of days to celebrate Elboron's seventh birthday in mid-Lótessë, but more than two months had passed since then.

Éowyn took a few sheets of paper off the top of a stack on the desk and read through a recent letter from him, dated four days ago. He was kept busy during the daytime with his duties, and frequently he spent the evenings as a guest at the home of his childhood friend Túrin, sharing supper with the warden of the keys' family. But despite that company his homesickness was evident, and not for the first time she entertained the idea of taking the children to him for a visit. But traveling with four little ones had its own difficulties, and she did not want to cause her children more tears with another painful farewell. Peregrin still sometimes looked gloomily toward the westward road.

A knock on the open door broke into her thoughts, and the smiling servant informed her that a rider had just arrived from the city. Éowyn nodded and said she would receive him in the study. She decided that unless the messenger brought with him some urgent matter she was finished with work for the day. As she stood, she collected the scattered papers into one large stack and placed the stick of sealing wax and the prince's signet ring on top. When she turned to put them in the cabinet, the papers shifted and the ring fell. It landed on the floor, bouncing, and disappeared into the space between the wall and the cabinet. With a muttered curse, she set the papers on a shelf, then knelt and slid her fingers into the gap. Her oaths grew coarser as her fingertips found nothing but dust.

“Is it possible that words so foul should spill from lips so fair?”

Éowyn gasped upon hearing the familiar voice and pushed herself back onto her feet. She hardly had time to turn around before Faramir wrapped her in his embrace and kissed her eagerly.

“Too long have I been away,” he said after a while. “Too long.”

“Yes,” she agreed before leaning in to kiss him again. “Welcome home, my love. What is the reason for this wonderful surprise? Surely the king has not returned early from his journey.” She noted some weariness in his face, attributable to both the day's long ride and the rigors of his work, but his gray eyes were bright and alert.

“No, he is still in the north,” Faramir replied, “but two days ago his latest messages arrived. One in particular proved of great interest to me. He wrote, _'If I know my steward, he has thrown himself entirely into serving the kingdom at some cost to his own house. Lady Éowyn will tolerate the sacrifice but will not look upon it kindly should the neglect of her family drag on.'_ So he commanded that I immediately set aside a week to tend to wife, children and Ithilien, in that order, and I gladly obey. Yesterday was spent in preparation for my departure, and today I am home. I see that I arrived just in time to avert disaster.”

He took the slender ash branch out of the window, slid it alongside the wall and with a few well-practiced jabs knocked the ring out into the open. “It never seems to fall under the chair or desk,” he said, bending down to pick up the ring. He brushed off some clinging dust, put the ring and branch back in the cabinet and began to shut the door.

“Wait,” Éowyn said as she put one hand on his arm and began to reach for a folded set of papers in the cabinet with her other. “There is something that–”

“Tomorrow,” he stated firmly, pulling her hand back and shutting the door. “I think this business of ruling Ithilien has changed you for the worse, melda.” Upon her surprised look, he chuckled and his voice softened. “Suddenly our roles have reversed and I am the one chiding you about working late into the evening instead of taking time to be with the children. Where are they? I thought they would have come running by now.”

Éowyn smiled at the gentle reproof – she had been far harsher with him on other occasions – and slipped her arm around his waist. “Then let us go find them,” she said as they walked out of the room. Ithilien would not collapse if the bridge tolls went unsettled tonight.


	6. The assault at Amon Pië (May 7, 22)

_Yavannië, Fourth Age 20_

The prince of Ithilien sat under an arbor of late-blooming clematis reading a new re-examination of the Kin-strife of the fifteenth century of the Third Age when wild shouts from a lower terrace in the garden drew his attention away from the book. He scanned the area and soon saw his golden-haired nine-year-old sons running down the small hill that was topped with rows of raspberry bushes. The long sticks they carried quickly transformed into bows as they turned and “shot” arrows back toward the greenery.

Faramir smiled at their play a moment before frowning as he noticed two large holes at the bottom of a once-tidy row of bushes. The frown deepened when he realized what his sons were wearing. “Peregrin! Meriadoc!” he called. His voice was not overly loud but carried a rare sharpness. The boys halted abruptly, their heads swiveling as they searched for their father. After they spotted him, he saw them glance toward the berry hill before they began to slowly walk to meet him.

As they drew closer his fears about their attire were confirmed. They were wearing the tunics they had received at their birthday celebration earlier that year. Éowyn had worked with the tailor to design them. The tunics were wine red with white, black and yellow embroidery across the chest and shoulders: horses and suns for Meriadoc, trees and stars for Peregrin. When Faramir had commented about the subtle differences, she replied, “The boys are much alike at first glance, too, but soon you discover how different they are.” Now the clothing bore signs of a struggle: small tears, pulled threads, streaks of dirt, twig and leaf fragments, and dark splotches from encountering a few berries that had escaped the harvest.

The first hints of guilt began to appear on the boys' faces as they stopped in front of their father. He looked them over, sighed and stood. “Inside,” he said wearily.

Faramir ushered his twins into the sitting room and made them stand before their mother, who was reviewing preparations for Cormarë, the swiftly approaching festival that marked Ringbearer Frodo Baggins' birthday. Éowyn looked with dismay at the dirt-caked and torn clothes. “How did you do this?”

Peregrin launched into the tale. “A band of orcs suddenly attacked us at Amon Pië!” he said. “We fought them, and when we had pushed them back enough to give us time to escape, we crawled under the bushes and made a run for it.”

“You did not need to crawl under the bushes,” his mother said crossly. “You could have simply run between the rows.”

The boy's eyes widened and he shook his head with so much vigor that his fair locks danced. “There were orc guards watching the rows! If we had stood up, they would have seen us and attacked us again.”

Éowyn rubbed her forehead. His imagination certainly was vivid, and because of it she knew he would have a ready answer for her next question. “Why are you wearing your best tunics instead of your everyday clothes?”

“Because we were leading a peace envoy, and Father says that one must dress to inspire confidence and reflect authority in such situations. 'If you are shown to lack control of your appearance, then perhaps you struggle to maintain control in other areas as well,' he says. We wanted to look like victors.”

“Peregrin, you are not victor over anything! There are no orcs in the garden,” Éowyn cried. “But I am sure there are broken raspberry branches now thanks to your merry chase, and I do not know whether your tunics can be mended and still be suitable for feast days, such as the one at the end of this month.”

“We needed to wear–”

Faramir halted him before he could further exasperate his mother. “No, you did not. If you could dream up a host of orcs chasing you, then you could also dream up finery to wear instead of ruining your own clothes.” His son looked up at him and frowned but wisely made no reply.

“Do you have anything to add, Meriadoc?” Éowyn asked.

The older brother kept his blue eyes fixed on the woven rug and shifted his feet. After a long moment he said softly, “I should not have ripped my tunic.” He raised his head to reveal eyes shining with tears, and with a quivering voice he said, “I am sorry, Mother.”

She nodded and turned her gaze to Peregrin. When he had given a mumbled apology of his own, she said, “Go put on your everyday clothes and then find the gardeners and ask them to help you repair the damage to the berry bushes. I will send for the tailor and see whether anything can be done about your tunics.”

As the boys trotted off without another word, Faramir put a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder, and she reached up to cover it with one of her own. “Their finest tunics,” she said, her voice filled with frustration and hurt.

“The finest peace envoy Amon Pië has ever seen,” he risked, squeezing her shoulder gently.

She sniffled but chuckled and murmured, “Our sons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A place in the gardens called Berry Hill has long been part of my head canon, and I was stupidly excited when I discovered that there appears to be [a Tolkien word for "berry."](https://www.elfdict.com/w/berry) I'm mixing Sindarin and Quenya, and no one's going to stop me.


	7. Demands and duties (May 9-11)

_Late Urimë, Fourth Age 8_

He lay heavy in her arms, resting his head on her chest while he caught his breath. With one hand she caressed his hair; with the other she traced the lines of his shoulder blades as she waited for her heart to slow from its racing pace. How long had it been, Éowyn wondered, since they had last made love so wholeheartedly? Or even at all? Since the start of the new year she had seen less and less of her husband every month as he grew more preoccupied with the Morgul errand. She understood that the cleansing of the Morgul Vale and the destruction of Minas Morgul itself were enormous tasks, but the preparation had done more than fill Faramir's time. It had consumed him.

Planning had begun two years prior and had increased in earnest over the past winter as king and council voiced discontent over the lack of progress.

“If I kicked over a stone, that would be more advancement than the steward has made,” one councilor said with a sneer.

In private Elessar was sympathetic regarding the complexities of such a challenge, but in the Súlimë meeting of the council he said, “Were it possible, I would have fair Minas Ithil restored so it again gleamed in the moonlight. But for a thousand years Isildur's city lay in the possession of the Nazgûl, and the wraiths corrupted it beyond repair. We cannot afford to let it linger as a potential haven for any remnants of the shadow. The prince of Ithilien must see this undertaking through.”

And so as the trees grew green in the spring sun Faramir immersed himself in the task. By day he marshaled resources and by night he studied maps of the vale made during the war and – unreliable though they may be – copies of ancient maps of the city itself. He often took his meals in his study, if he was home for them, leaving his lady to dine alone. Then he stayed at his desk late into the night, again leaving his lady alone. Sometimes she would wake as he fell into bed beside her. Other times she would wake to find the covers and pillow on that side cold and undisturbed.

Then the setbacks began – storms, wildfire in the vale, a strange illness that struck surveyors and rangers: as though the city of sorcery knew its destroyers were coming and worked to halt them – and spring blossomed into summer. With problems afield that required his attention, Faramir became almost a phantom in his own home.

Éowyn's patience first wore thin, then showed cracks.

“I should not have to arrange an audience to see my husband like a mere supplicant!” she had protested this morning when she had arranged just that.

Faramir could not entirely hide the irritation he felt at discovering that he would not be speaking with the leader of a company of dwarves offering to tunnel under and collapse the tower's walls.

“Your husband bears the weight of many demands,” he answered. “Be grateful that he has not broken under them.”

“I do not demand anything of you. Instead I beg for an evening, an hour, of your time without distraction.”

He laughed mirthlessly and turned his gaze to the sketches of the Morgul walls on his desk. “This errand looms almost as large as the shadow of old. I know not what could make me forget such a 'distraction.'”

He raised his eyes just in time to see her pained expression before she turned and strode out of the room. Sighing heavily, he tossed the drawings into a drawer.

So Éowyn had been surprised this evening when he met her in the corridor and walked with her to the table for supper. After the meal she expected him to politely excuse himself and return to his study, but he had surprised her further by suggesting a walk in the gardens. They paused for a while on a stone bench tucked under an arched trellis draped with white clematis and listened to the evening chorus of crickets and frogs.

“Forgive me, melda,” Faramir said after they had sat quietly for several minutes. “It is shameful how I have let so many other demands take precedence over my duty to my wife.”

“I may find it in my heart to forgive you,” she answered, “if I see you have mended your ways.” Her stern look held up under his scrutinizing gaze only briefly before it gave way to a small smile.

He chuckled. “Then I will do so.” He sealed his promise with a tender kiss, which was quickly followed by one more urgent. Soon the warmth that lord and lady felt had nothing to do with the summer air.

“I recall a duty to wife and marriage that has been woefully neglected for far too long,” Faramir said between kisses that trailed up Éowyn's neck.

“What is that?”

His kisses ended with a whisper hot against her ear: “Am I still welcome in our bed?”

Éowyn put a hand on his chest and pushed him away as she stood and began to walk along the stone pathway. After a few steps she stopped and looked over her shoulder, taking in his startled and confused expression. Mischief suddenly danced in her eyes. “Shall we find out?”

Now he sighed again in the comfortable silence of their bedchamber. “These past months have strained me in body and spirit. Elessar appointed me to lead the campaign, but I do not know whether I am the right man for the task,” he confessed. “I question whether I have the strength and wisdom to complete it successfully. The king's confidence is an encouragement, but...”

Faramir's voice trailed off, and just as Éowyn was about to comment, he continued softly. “I fear that place, Éowyn. I dread what we will find there lurking in the dark corners and hidden rooms, and what will be required of us to defeat it. Truly, I am afraid to go.”

Her hands stilled their caresses as she tightened her arms around him and tilted her head to kiss his hair. She had known him to state worries and concerns about situations he faced, but she could not recall when he had last admitted to being afraid.

“I want to stay behind, yet I cannot ask – nay, command – others to do what I lack the courage to carry out myself,” he continued. “During the war there were often times when I felt fear, but never like this. Even the thought of that place freezes my heart.”

“Perhaps I should go with you to thaw your heart and lend courage when yours is spent,” she suggested gently.

He tensed. “No! No, melda, there is no role for you in this venture.”

“Perhaps not in razing the city itself, but I can assist as one of the healers, for surely there will be injuries and illness along the way.”

“No!” he repeated more forcefully, his fist clenching the sheets into a wad. “I will not allow you to blindly endanger yourself.”

Her anger flared. “Blindly endanger myself? I recognize the dangers of that evil place and understand that–”

“You do not understand,” he stated coldly. “None of us fully do. Éowyn, a terror is still at work there, a power that puts madness into men's minds. It begins as a great unease as one enters the vale, and it steadily grows upon drawing closer to the city. If it is not mastered... The results have already proved deadly. One of the stonemasons who went to survey the city began ranting that destroying it was a great evil and would bring ruin upon any who attempted to do so.” Faramir paused for a long moment, then whispered, “He threw himself into the Morgulduin.”

Éowyn drew a sharp breath. She remembered noting how gloom had hung over that company upon its return from the vale. Faramir had been reluctant to talk about what had happened then, and she had not pressed him further. But now even with this knowledge she was not swayed.

“I have heard those dark voices, as have you, and we both have conquered them. We have faced the worst of the shadow and survived. Surely–”

“We survived by the greatest of good fortunes. You were on the verge of perishing, as was I, and only the timely arrival of Aragorn Elessar kept us from joining the ranks of the dead. He will not be camping on the doorstep this time. Have you conquered those dark voices? Truly? In Súlimë your dreams are troubled as the date of your wounding draws near, and that is in the peace of our home. What special horrors may await you in that city, you who slew its master?”

“What awaits you, you who for years kept the forces of Mordor at bay?” she retorted. “Whatever they are, let us face them together.”

“No,” he said again, almost choking on the word. “I can bear the risk to my own life and the lives of those I command, but I cannot bear even the thought of you being in that place. I want you to have no memory of it except as a distant shadow in a cleft of the mountains. I want you to be safe, to know you are safe, far from danger in our quiet gardens. I want... Again, Éowyn, please,” he asked in a desperate whisper before rising onto his arms and kissing her hungrily.

Anger still smoldering, she considered denying him. But she also wanted to comfort him still, to be comforted in turn, and moreover her desire for her lover was rapidly being rekindled as his lips and teeth explored the curves of her body. The conflict within herself was brief; her lust won out.

In the middle of the night she woke, still smiling, and reached out to touch him, but her hand met empty air. Her eyes flew open, and a moment later hot tears filled them. She rolled onto her side, turning her back to the sheets and covers that were crumpled but cold.

Just like so many other nights, he was gone, and once more she spoke bitter words to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In some ways with this story I'm coming around full circle to when I first began writing LOTR fanfic back in 2001 on a little ol' messageboard (theonering.com – no, not TORN). This story contains some of the events that led up to that 2001 group writing effort, "The Quest of Revenge." My contribution to the story began with Éowyn pretty much packing up her bags and leaving Faramir because he had become obsessed with the Morgul errand and she was fed up with being neglected. (That sounds so much better than how my 16-year-old self actually wrote it.) She took up with a group of adventurers and ... um ... stuff happened. Revenge against someone might have been achieved. We didn't know what we were doing, but we had fun with it.


	8. A horseman's birthday (May 12-16)

_Lótessë 17, Fourth Age 16_

After several days of rain and gray skies, the late-spring weather had cleared up and now blessed Elboron's birthday with bright sunshine. How could he be seven years old already, Éowyn wondered as she helped her firstborn saddle a chestnut pony in the stables. He greeted each day with excitement, inquisitiveness and a boundless energy that she sometimes envied, but sometimes when she looked at him she still saw the unsteady toddler who would fall giggling into her arms. Other times, when he was quiet and thinking something through, she saw a smaller version of her beloved Faramir. And at still other times she saw only him as he was – Elboron, himself.

She placed a saddle on the long-legged pony's back and stepped aside so her son could finish the task. The steed was a gift from his uncle and had arrived from Rohan during a rain shower a week ago. Elboron had wanted to go for a ride immediately despite the rain but faced disappointment when he was told that the mare should have some time to get used to her new home first. That disappointment had eased greatly when he had learned he would be responsible for his pony's daily grooming and walk to the meadow. Now he tightened and buckled the girth before letting out the stirrup leathers while chattering happily in Rohirric.

“I hope Éothred lets me take Fyren down to the creek,” he said. “I think she will like wading in the water on hot days like today. He says she is almost eighteen years old!”

“Yes, she was foaled in the mountains the year before your father and I were wed,” his mother confirmed.

“But that means she is almost as old as Narâk, and Dadi says it is almost time to stop using him for riding. Why did Uncle Éomer give me such an old pony? Will I get a different one next year?” A worried expression crossed his face as he stroked the mare's shoulder. “But I like her a lot already, and she even looks like Narâk!”

“Ponies tend to live longer than horses. Narâk is quite a few more years older than her and has worked hard during his life, so he has earned a rest. You are not a very big burden yet, and I think you will outgrow your little mare long before she needs to be retired from use. Your uncle chose an older pony for you because she will be a calm mount for a new young rider. A pony of your own age is still full of mischief and would be more likely to run away with you if you made a mistake, although she still could.”

The boy's smile returned as he nodded. Next he fumbled with the bridle, dropping the reins twice before he had all the straps sorted. Éowyn thought she would have to help slide the headpiece over the swiveling ears, but the mare dipped her head as Elboron raised the bridle.

Mother, son and pony soon were walking to the schooling ring where Faramir and his other children were waiting. Faramir's own presence had been another surprise birthday gift. With the king's extended absence due to his journey north to Annúminas, the steward had spent almost seven weeks in Minas Tirith handling his increased duties. He had managed to escape for a very brief holiday to celebrate with his son and see to any matters with the fief that Éowyn had set aside for him. Now he wore a wide smile upon seeing his son's delight.

“A fine pony indeed,” he said as they drew near.

“Fyren stood still while we were saddling her and did not try to pull away while I was putting the bridle on,” Elboron announced in Sindarin. “I think she must want to go for a ride. Maybe she was bored with doing nothing but eating grass all day in the meadow.”

His father chuckled. “How fortunate, then, that you have a task to rescue her from dull, care-free days.”

A high voice asked in almost a shout, “Can I pet her?” The question was from Peregrin, who stood beside his father.

A quieter plea of “Me too!” came from Meriadoc, standing next to his twin. Their sister, Elerrína, sat farther back on the pathway more interested in some stones she had found than in the new pony.

Elboron looked from father to mother and back to father before realizing that he was the one who would get to make the decision. “Yes,” he replied, “but only if you are nice and do not scare her.”

The twins stepped forward and each raised a hand high to stroke the chestnut neck. The pony sniffed both heads of fair hair before nudging Meriadoc with her nose. “She likes me!” he declared.

Meanwhile Peregrin told Elboron slyly, “I hope you do not fall off.”

A hint of nervousness suddenly appeared in the older brother's expression. “I hope so too.”

Their mother said, “If you do, you will simply remount, but do not worry about it now. Come on, into the ring.” She opened the gate in the two-rail fence, and Elboron led his pony into the training area where deep sand muffled their steps. He stopped the pony and carefully slipped the reins over her head before pausing and biting his lip. When Éowyn stepped forward and took hold of the bridle, her son gave her a grateful smile. His confidence restored, he put his left foot into the stirrup and in one quick motion hoisted himself into the saddle.

Éowyn felt a lump form in her throat as she looked up – just barely – at her son. His gray eyes were bright with anticipation as he slipped the reins through his fingers and shifted in the saddle. A new adventured was beginning for him, the first of many, she was sure. 

“Sit up straight and let me check whether the stirrups long enough,” she said with a voice that quavered a little before evening out again. They were slightly too long, and she adjusted the leathers up one notch before stepping back to see again whether he would be comfortable but secure. Then she slid two fingers under the girth to confirm that it was not too loose from a naughty pony letting out a belly full of air. The mare stood quietly and swished her white tail while mother fussed and son squirmed, eager to begin.

“All right, my love, you are ready,” Éowyn said at last as she ran her hand along a stirrup leather one more time. 

Somehow Elboron's grin grew even bigger. He gently squeezed his legs against the pony's sides and the mare obediently began to walk. Éowyn watched them for a few moments before leaving the ring to stand by Faramir, her eyes shining with pride. 

“You are going to make a horseman out of this child of the south,” he said, clasping her hand.

“That has been my intent all along,” she replied. She glanced down at the feel of small fingers clutching her other hand. Meriadoc gazed up at her, his eyes wide with desperation.

“I want a pony too,” he said.

“You will have to petition your uncle about that,” his mother answered. “I suspect he will say that you must wait until you are seven years old as well.”

Gloom swept over the boy's face. “Can I ride Elboron's pony until then?”

“Perhaps, if you ask him politely and if Éothred says you have progressed enough in your lessons.”

Now sorrow replaced the gloom, and the boy stomped off to stand beside his twin. He was having some trouble with the schooling pony – mostly because he needed to grow more, the chief groom had repeatedly assured the Lady of Ithilien – but was eager to assist the grooms with their duties, although sometimes he strayed into becoming more of a nuisance than a help. 

Éowyn smiled as she watched him pout. “There is the horseman of the family once he learns to be more patient,” she told Faramir. She turned her attention back to the ring. Elboron had completed a second lap, and Éothred called out for him to try it at a trot. The boy's brow wrinkled as he concentrated on keeping his balance amid the gait's jolts, and after going one length of the ring he began to wobble and bounce in the saddle.

Again Éowyn felt a small hand take hers. “Can I ride the pony if he falls off?”

Faramir answered instead. “No, Meriadoc, and if you ask again you will not be allowed to ride the pony at all. It is Elboron's special gift, and he should enjoy it before anyone else does.”

The five-year-old stomped off once more to stand beside his lookalike, who was hanging over the lower rail of the fence and kicking up his heels. One kick proved too powerful, rolling Peregrin completely over the rail with a yelp. Elboron and his pony were a dozen feet down the fence line, but the pony still squealed and leaped toward the middle of the ring at the sudden noise. Her rider, already loosened by the trot, tumbled from the saddle and landed in the sand with a thud.

Éowyn gasped and began to slip through the two rails but stopped when she realized Éothred had already reached Elboron and was starting to help him stand. She saw her son's face redden and scrunch up as though he were about to cry – whether from pain or humiliation she could not tell. Moving out from between the rails, she turned to find Faramir had pulled his youngest son aside and was scolding him quietly. At the same time a small form slammed into her legs and clung to her skirts.

“Elboron fall down!” Elerrína wailed. “Brother is hurt!”

“No, my love, he is well,” Éowyn assured her daughter. She crouched and pointed toward the group in the ring. “You see? Éothred is helping him get back on the pony.” 

The three-year-old wiped her eyes, then nodded. “Bad pony,” she whispered.

“Frightened pony,” Éowyn corrected her gently. “Peregrin fell into the ring in front of the pony and made a noise that startled her.” The little girl scowled and pursed her lips but otherwise accepted the answer.

Éothred gave Elboron a few more instructions before he released the bridle and walked toward the fence. “Master Peregrin, if you are going to play, do it in a place where riders are not working,” the chief groom added to the scolding as he ducked between the rails. “This is the second fall you have caused recently because of your carelessness.”

“Second?” Éowyn noted, giving her son a sharp glance.

The chief groom waved a hand. “The Lord of Lebennin's errand rider was showing off with some trick riding, standing in one stirrup and other foolishness, when Master Peregrin came running out from behind one of the rose bushes,” Éothred explained in a low voice. “The horse spooked and the rider ended up on his backside. Served him right, but the boy does not need to know that,” he added with a wink.

“I suppose the next message from Lebennin will include the demand for some sort of remittance for the near death of his errand rider while in our care,” Éowyn said with a sigh. The chief groom's only comment was a snort. Soon the lady felt another child's arm curl around her free leg and a small form press against it. Peregrin hid his face in her skirts, but she could hear him sniffling and she reached down to stroke his hair and neck.

Faramir also returned and wrapped his arm around Éowyn's shoulders. Together in comfortable, contented silence they watched their son take his pony through a simple pattern in the ring. His smile had returned, and he even appeared to be comfortable enough again in the saddle to exchange some banter with three rangers who had gathered to watch on the far side of the ring. 

After a while, Faramir kissed his wife's gray-flecked hair. “Happy birthday, mother,” he whispered.

Leaning her head against his chest, Éowyn replied, “A happy birthday indeed, father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Éowyn setting the stirrups for Elboron when he rides his first pony is something [Faramir envisioned several years prior](http://anke.edoras-art.de/letter_faramir_25.04.11.pdf) when he was on the verge of succumbing to a particularly nasty poison during an abduction (link goes to PDF).


	9. Steward spats (May 17, 23)

_Ringarë, Fourth Age 20_

As the Steward of Gondor entered his personal quarters in Minas Tirith, he raised his eyebrows upon hearing angry young voices echo off the stone walls. “Forgive me, my liege,” he told King Elessar, who had accompanied him and Éowyn back to their residence to continue a discussion. “It appears my children have left their proper behavior behind in Ithilien.” Faramir began to step toward the sitting room, but the king placed a hand on his arm.

“Allow me,” Elessar said. “The matter seems to be one that I should weigh in on as well.”

Faramir paused before nodding. His eldest son, set to turn twelve years old in the spring, and his daughter, a recent celebrant of her eighth birthday, were quarreling about who would take over their father's duties once he was too old to rule.

“I am the oldest, and the title is harad– hereditary,” Elboron stated as he tried out a word he had recently learned. “You are the youngest and a girl. None of the stewards have ever been girls.”

Elerrína's voice grew higher and louder as she became more adamant. “But Mami is a girl and younger than Uncle Éomer, and she defeated the Witch-king wraith while Dadi was hurt in the Houses of Healing and King Elessar was not even at the battle yet!”

“That was a battle! That has nothing to do with sitting on the council and helping the king to rule the kingdom,” her brother retorted.

“She helps rule Ithilien when Dadi is away. She reads the messages the errand riders bring and goes out to inspect the rangers and orders them about and–”

“That … that is not the same,” Elboron broke in as he racked his mind for a better excuse. “Ithilien is just a fief and Gondor is, well, the entire kingdom.”

Éowyn murmured for Faramir's ears: “A fief that accounts for a fifth of the kingdom.” He allowed a small smile while he shook his head.

“You are just afraid that I will be better at it than you,” Elerrína accused.

A fresh bloom of red appeared in Elboron's cheeks. “What makes you think you can manage a kingdom? You cannot manage to keep your horses all in one spot – and they are made out of wood!”

From the doorway, Elessar declared, “With such raised voices and unsporting attacks, neither of you has shown that you possess the qualities I demand of my steward.”

Brother and sister both spun to face the speaker. Two sets of gray eyes widened and flushed cheeks paled as the children recognized who stood in the entrance and who stood behind him wearing expressions of disapproval. Then the siblings turned their gazes to the floor almost at the same time.

Upon seeing Elboron's crestfallen face, the king added, “Yet there is still plenty of time for both of you to cultivate those qualities, whether you are to take up the office or not. I am free to choose my steward regardless of birth date, Elboron, and although it is very likely that you will follow your father, it is not certain. After all, he himself became steward only after bitter losses. One of your siblings may show a particular aptitude for politics and dealing with troublesome lords while you do not. What is certain is that your debate skills need refining. Your sister was building a solid case to show that a woman can be just as capable of ruling as a man. Indeed, had events played out differently your mother could have been a queen, whether of Rohan, Gondor or perhaps even in the Harad. Even Númenor had a few ruling queens before it was destroyed.” The girl looked up and smiled radiantly. The king continued, “But, Elerrína, you sabotaged your own efforts when you launched an unjustified personal attack at your brother. You may win points with your allies that way, but you will not win your opponent to your side.” Her smile dimmed. “As you discovered, a personal attack often leads to one launched in return. Among political opponents this breeds anger and resentment. Among family it can spark those and lasting bitterness as well.”

He cautioned gently, “Do not let that be the outcome between you two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably being a little generous with what percentage of Gondor Ithilien accounts for in land mass, but "a sixth" sounds like a desperate attempt to prove its relevance.


	10. Homesick (May 18-19)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet takes place toward what would be the end of events in "The Snake's Checkmate," a collaborative story that – in true Tolkien fashion – remains unfinished. To sum up, Faramir and Éowyn journeyed to the Harad for a wedding, and on the way home they were ambushed by longtime nemesis Marek Al-Jahmîr, who abducted Éowyn and had Faramir near-fatally wounded. Éowyn was in the early months of pregnancy (surprise!) and was unable to return home before the birth.

_Early Ringarë, Fourth Age 12_

She stood at the open window and looked north toward home. Her eyes saw the red-tiled roofs of the harbor city on the Bay of Umbar, but her mind made no note of them. In her mind's eye she saw a white-stone city built at the foot of a great mountain, and farther beyond that lay green hills and her own white-stone house. For months she had hoped of rescue and flight away from this place while the child within her grew, but even though she was no longer a captive she still could not fully escape.

She did not turn around as Faramir's quiet footsteps crossed the room behind her, halted for a moment and then came toward her. “She is asleep already?” Éowyn asked.

“I had hardly begun the story before her eyes closed,” he answered. “She is happy and content.” Noting his lady's distracted expression, he added quietly, “But you are not, I deem.”

“I want to go home,” she whispered as he carefully wrapped his arms around her tender middle and rested his chin on her shoulder. A warm breeze, heavy with the scent of the sea, drifted past them. “Am I always to be a prisoner of the healers?”

Now he smiled and kissed her neck. “In all the years I have loved you, I have never seen you win an argument with the healers about extended rest. We will return home when you are recovered and our Elerrína is strong enough. Every day that passes brings that departure closer.”

“Six months, Faramir, it has been almost six months since I have seen the boys. Will I recognize them, and will they remember me?”

“You will and they will,” he assured her, recalling how his sons had greeted him with excitement and delight during his brief journey back to Gondor. “How could they forget their beloved mother who has taken them for horse rides, sung them lullabies and comforted them during thunderstorms? Do not dwell on such dark thoughts that will only cause you more grief.”

“I try, but children forget so easily.”

“Ours remember,” he stated.

She reached for his hand and clasped it, wanting to feel the same confidence he did. Part of her heart believed that, yes, her three little ones would know her no matter what, but it was shouted down by other fears. Perhaps the boys would enjoy the time with their aunt Lothíriel and cousin Elfwine so much that she would be a disappointing second best once she returned. Perhaps they would be angry because of her long absence and hold a grudge against her instead of her captor. Perhaps...

“Talk to me of other things,” she said suddenly.

“The Steward of Gondor and his lady have been inundated with letters decrying this entire Al-Jahmîr situation and sympathizing with our plight,” Faramir said. “There were also many congratulations bestowed on us for the birth of our daughter, and among those were five marriage proposals. I politely declined four of them.”

A chill ran down her back and she dug her fingers into his hand. “Four? If you have promised her away already I will never forgive you.”

He flinched but chuckled. “The fifth was from Aravôr, offering a son yet to come, and I told him I would give it consideration – for many long years.”

“Yet they will go by far too swiftly,” Éowyn said softly as she relaxed her grip on his hand.

“They will,” he agreed with a sigh, “but until such a time, and even afterward, she is ours. She has yet to play in the gardens and collect flowers from the beds to make garlands for herself and for you.”

Faramir paused, pressed his cheek against her hair and tightened his arms around her as much as he dared. He whispered, “I too want to go home.”


	11. A walking ghost (May 21)

_Urimë 17, Third Age 3019_

The stares and whispers had begun almost from the moment Faramir set foot in Edoras as part of Théoden's funeral escort, and although they had lessened some in the ten days since, Éowyn saw that he still received startled second looks from time to time. When she first met him in the Houses of Healing she had not noted how greatly he and Boromir had shared a resemblance, but as she searched her memory she realized that, yes, they did look much alike. That was to be expected of brothers, she thought. Even so, some of the riders who remembered Boromir the bold from his brief stop at the Golden Hall the previous year during his search for Imladris quietly wondered among themselves whether this raven-haired figure who now walked in the hall was the great man returned from the dead.

In more recent days those riders had discovered that Faramir of Gondor was not as much like his brother as they had hoped. Whereas Boromir had been quick to join in with their jests and sword exercises in the training yard, Faramir had little to add to the bawdy jokes and almost reluctantly picked up a blade for sparring – although Éowyn watched with pride as he quickly and soundly defeated any who challenged him. Instead he preferred to sit with Gléowine and listen to the minstrel's songs and tales so he could better know the history of this northern kingdom. 

But the greatest difference of all was that he was often seen in the company of the Lady of the Shield-arm, coaxing smiles and even laughter from the once-cold maiden amid the grief of entombing her beloved uncle. 

He was not Boromir the bold but, the riders deemed, neither was he an unworthy second best.


	12. Untitled (May 24-31 and bits of June, July and August)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This final installment in my personal May writing challenge has languished unposted for almost two and a half months because right now it's a series of (mostly) connected scenes that haven't really congealed into a story that goes somewhere. At times I have Point A and Point C, but Point B is still unknown to me and is represented by the deeply unflattering but brutally honest "[Stuff happens.]"
> 
> I'm also stumped for a title. The document file name is "North and South," but that's a bit cliche. Rargh. Writing problems.
> 
> Anyhoo, welcome to the final and longest installment.

_Yavannië, Fourth Age 39_

The late afternoon sunlight cast long shadows across the courtyard where Éowyn and Faramir stood awaiting the group of riders that had been spotted on the winding road an hour earlier. Their daughter, Elerrína, was returning from what had become a three-year stay at Annúminas as she worked with other sculptors and stonemasons from Gondor to restore parts of the ancient northern city. Her letters had been regular and lengthy, but they were a poor substitute for a beloved child's presence and her parents had missed her terribly.

Slow hoofbeats drew nearer, and soon four horses walked through the ivy-laden gateway. Éowyn squeezed Faramir's arm as she saw their daughter. Elerrína's face was unexpectedly pale despite the late summer heat, but her smile was bright as she raised a hand and waved. “Mother! Father!”

“Welcome home, my love!” Éowyn called. As she and Faramir stepped toward the group, she noted the two rangers who had been sent to Osgiliath to escort her daughter home lingered several paces back but the fourth rider, a young man she did not recognize, had already dismounted and stood beside Elerrina's horse. He was tall, almost as tall as Faramir, Éowyn thought. She guessed him to be about 30 years of age, the same as her Elboron. His dark hair fell at his shoulders, keen gray eyes peered out of an angular face, and tanned cheeks and arms suggested many hours in spent in the sun. The green tunic he wore appeared to be well made but was unadorned, and a brown cloak was rolled behind his saddle. A pleasant suspicion formed in her mind as he reached up to help the young woman down. As Elerrína stood and rubbed her back, the breeze tugged at her loose blue and white riding clothes, tightening them over a distinctly rounded belly. 

Out of the corner of her eye Éowyn saw Faramir abruptly halt, and her own steps slowed as she took in her daughter's figure and suddenly anxious expression. A heartbeat later Éowyn resumed her stride and reached out to embrace her daughter gently. “Welcome home, my love,” she repeated, surprised to find her voice steady. She added in a whisper for her child's ear, “Oh, my sweet Elerrína, you told us much, but there is much more you did not say.”

Elerrína nodded, her dark hair brushing against Éowyn's gray-white locks, and then she pressed her face into the crook of her mother's neck as her tears began. After a brief storm of quiet sobs she stepped back and shook her head. “No, I promised myself I would not do this,” she stated as she wiped her eyes. Drawing a ragged breath, she reached for the young man's arm and put on a wobbly smile. “Mother, this is Araval, one of the Dúnedain of the North and a cousin of the king. Araval, this is my mother, Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien and Wraith-foe.”

A spark of wonder lit his face before he bowed deeply. “My lady, I am honored.”

“I welcome you to Dol Arandur, Araval of the Dúnedain,” Éowyn answered. Even in a few words his accented Sindarin was clear and reminded her of Elessar when he spoke. She glanced to her left upon hearing the scuff of a boot on stone and saw that Faramir had finally come to stand by her side. His face was tight and his eyes blazed with a cold fire as he stared at the northerner who held his gaze steadily.

Tears threatened to spill down Elerrína's cheeks once more. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped Araval's arm. She whispered, “Father, this … this is ...”

“Lord Faramir, son of Denethor II, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien,” the young man stated as he again bowed deeply. “I am Araval son of of Thalion, lieutenant of the Fox Company of the Rangers of the North.”

Faramir remained silent as he studied the man before him. At length he said slowly, “I welcome you to Dol Arandur, Araval son of Thalion.”

“Thank you, my lord. I have many things to speak about with you.”

“Indeed, you do.”

Éowyn broke the tense silence that followed. “Come inside for refreshment, both of you. You must be exhausted. The grooms will see to your horses and baggage.” She slipped her arm around her daughter's waist and drew her forward. Elerrína leaned against her mother as they walked toward the house.

“Father hates him,” Elerrína whispered.

“No, he is surprised and angry at being surprised, but he has always been slow to hate,” Éowyn assured her. “Still, this is the man who has made a mother out of his little girl while she was away playing with rocks, and that is a very strong mark against him.”

“Not just mother, but wife.” Elerrína held out her right hand: A slender gold ring encircled one finger.

Éowyn sighed. “I had hoped to watch two kings and three princes quarrel over whose turn it was to dance with the bride,” she murmured as they entered the house. Elerrína's sniffles returned, and Éowyn stroked her hair. “There will be other delights. When will I hold my grandchild?”

Her daughter managed a smile. “Not for another three months.”

Araval had trailed them but stopped and looked back as he reached the steps in front of the doorway. Faramir remained standing in the courtyard, his arms crossed and his gaze on the stones. He glanced at the house, saw the northerner lingering and after a moment's pause turned and walked toward the ivy-covered archway. Araval followed his wife indoors.

-*-

An hour later Éowyn met Faramir in a corridor as she returned from the kitchens where she had made some alterations to the supper arrangements. “Where have you been? Elerrína kept glancing out the window to look for you,” she chided.

“I sent word about this to Elboron, and I hope it reaches him before the gossip does,” he explained. “Then I simply walked in the gardens and tried to make sense of this revelation. In three years of letters I cannot recall her writing even one word about a suitor, yet now she returns with him at her side and a child on the way. A child – Éowyn, how has all this come about? Is she still in the sitting room? I must speak with her.”

“She and Araval are upstairs resting before supper,” Éowyn said. She noticed his jaw tighten at the mention of the man's name. “You would have received some answers to your question had you joined us instead of disappearing and worrying her further. He has been courting her for two years and – yes, I know,” she said as his bafflement deepened. “She told us the color of the boarding house cat's eyes but did not tell us that she was being wooed. She says she did not intend to entertain his advances for long, but her affection for him grew, and when it came time for her to return home, ending the matter was difficult.”

He began another question, but she held up a hand. “Ask your daughter when you see her next, after you have greeted her properly this time,” Éowyn said. “She has the full answer, and you will be able to discern her unspoken thoughts better than I can.”

-*-

[Stuff happens.]

-*-

“The War of the Ring does not seem so long ago, yet now the first children of the Fourth Age have grown up and are founding families of their own.”

Elerrína smiled but Araval ducked his head. “I am a child of the Third Age,” he said quietly, “though not by much.” He looked up, caught the steward's gaze and saw the unspoken question. “3017.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. Faramir stabbed a bit of roast beef with his fork. “It is only a little more than the span of years between you and Mother,” Elerrína quickly noted. “And how many centuries lie between the king and queen?”

“Almost twenty-seven,” Faramir answered, “but that is a unique occurrence.”

[Transition goes here.]

The hurried thuds of booted feet announced unexpected visitors, and soon three men appeared at the doorway. All were dressed in clothes colored dark green and brown but tinged with the lighter brown of dust from travel. An insignia of a crescent moon under seven stars was embroidered in white thread at their left shoulders. The leader and tallest of the three had raven hair that just brushed the nape of his neck and gray eyes that flashed as he surveyed the room. His pale cheeks reddened when his gaze alit on Araval.

“You have disgraced my sister, and I challenge you to a duel,” he announced as he crossed the room in long strides.

Araval and Elerrína stood at the same time. “He has done no such thing!” she retorted.

“You will not provoke him into a duel, Elboron,” Faramir stated.

“Very well,” his son replied. “Zimrathôr, you were supposed to wed her. You challenge him.”

The addressed – a young Southron with dark, solemn eyes and curly black hair tied back into a plait – stood just inside the doorway and shifted slightly in embarrassment. He remained silent.

“No such promises were ever made between Ithilien and Khiblat Pharazôn,” Faramir said. “The musings his father, grandfather and I shared were only that.”

“Then how shall this dishonor be avenged? It cannot go unaddressed.”

“That is for me to decide and you to accept,” Faramir answered coldly. “Tonight you are all fire and fury, and nothing beneficial will come of that. Go back to your barracks, and perhaps tomorrow you will be able to handle this matter more calmly.”

Elboron crossed his arms. “Father, 'this matter' is–”

“If you will not listen to me as your father, then perhaps you will listen to your captain instead,” Faramir barked. “Return to your barracks at once, lieutenant. You are dismissed.”

Elboron's jaw snapped shut, but his eyes flickered to his sister and her husband. Then he squared his shoulders, spun around and strode out of the room. His two companions followed; Zimrathôr glanced toward the table before he left.

Elerrína sank down onto her chair and hid her face in her hands. Araval rubbed her back slowly. “Perhaps I should have just sent one more long letter,” she moaned.

“He would have gone north to find you,” Éowyn said, “and after months of letting his anger smolder he would not be more reasonable.”

-*-

[Stuff happens]

-*-

Faramir raised his head from the letter he was writing when he heard the soft scuff of a door opening. At the faint edge of the candlelight he saw his daughter standing in the doorway. “Are you angry with me, Father?” she asked softly.

His voice was hoarse as he answered, “No, my bright star, no.” His eyes burned with unshed tears as he inwardly cursed himself for giving her reason to think so. He put down the pen, pushed the chair back and held out his hand to her. She crossed the room quickly and sat across his lap as she had done as a child. He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. 

“It seems that no matter how desperately I have tried to keep you little, you have found a way to prove that you have outgrown my selfish wishes,” he said. “I wanted to keep you a babe in arms, but one evening you walked on unsteady feet to welcome me home. I wanted to keep you a carefree girl, but one midsummer day you had the nerve to ask Queen Arwen when you could be one of her maids. And as you grew into a young woman I wanted to keep you hidden away in Ithilien, carving statues for the garden or trinkets for this desk, but one morning you received the king's appointment to go far away to Annúminas and you went with pride. I want to keep you for my own, my treasure and my joy, but now there is someone else who has discovered you to be a treasure and a joy. I have known from the night you were born that this time would come, and I have dreaded it more than I dreaded the shadow of Mordor.”

Elerrína did not try to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks, so Faramir brushed them away with his thumb. “No, Ella, I am not angry with you. I may be disappointed with the manner in which matters have come about, but what is done is done and I love you no less for it. Whatever you need in this time to come, if it is in my power to give it I will.”

“Thank you, Father,” she whispered as she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and rested her forehead against his. Faramir closed his eyes and enjoyed the comfortable silence that now grew between himself and his daughter. He could almost imagine that she was again the small child who would come to him seeking an answer for something she had long been pondering.

After a while, Elerrína leaned back and asked, “What of Araval? What is your opinion of him?”

Faramir let out a slow breath before he opened his eyes. “The first time I encountered one of these rangers of the north, he took back the kingdom but granted me the stewardship. Now another one has come out of the north, but he is less gracious: He intends to take my daughter back with him as well as my next grandchild.” He forced a small smile. “Allow me time to know him better and I may yet forgive him. He seems to be a decent fellow, and if he has met your exacting standards then I doubt I will find much fault with him.” 

Elerrína chuckled, then drew a quick breath and pressed his hand against her middle. Faramir swallowed hard as he felt the child move beneath his fingers, Hot tears again stung his eyes, but now they were tears of love.

-*-

[Stuff happens.]

-*-

Araval left through the small garden gate and, after asking a few questions of the guard there, followed a wide lane that was lined with tall grasses interspersed with cascading golden flowers. He came upon two long, low white-stone buildings separated by a yard of hard-packed earth. The yard was busy as the members of the White Company not afield worked on sword drills, and the air was filled with the clatter of wooden blade on wooden blade and the occasional shout as a sword found its mark. He watched from under the shade of an oak tree as felled rangers walked to the side of the yard and the victors found new matches. 

As the field of combatants thinned, Araval caught sight of Elboron sparring on the far side of the yard. He was being pushed back by a shorter ranger and soon lost his sword arm to a swift sidestroke. Now only two fighters remained: this short ranger and the Southron whom Araval recalled from the interruption during supper the previous evening. Zimrathôr grinned and raised his scimitar in a salute; the ranger grimaced and lifted his broadsword. They circled for a moment, and then the young Southron's curved hickory blade flashed in the sunlight as he lunged. The ranger dodged to the side but could not make a return stroke. They continued like this until the ranger lifted his sword to parry and Zimrathôr brought his scimitar down with all his weight behind it. The broadsword cracked and splintered into several pieces, and the Southron spewed a stream of choice words in Adûnaic as he tapped his opponent on the chest with his intact blade. A chorus of hoots and cries of “Eight!” went up around the yard.

A voice beside Araval said, “When someone breaks one of the practice swords, he pays to have it replaced. Lordship has already contributed seven to the armory.” The speaker was an older ranger wearing a dark green tunic trimmed with black and bearing the stars and moon on the left shoulder. “I am Dírhael, captain of the White Company. Would I be right to say you have recently arrived at Dol Arandur?”

“You would,” Araval answered.

“Then I might also be right to say you are the one who inspired an unusual fit of rage from our lieutenant yesterday?”

Araval paused before replying. “When I saw him he seemed to be no stranger to rage.”

Dírhael snorted. “He has his moments – gets it from the wild northern blood of his mother's line – but I had never known him to bring it into the barracks. Even the lads in the west hall could hear him ranting.”

[Transition goes here.]

“I do not believe you truly desire to leave your beloved sister a widow and her child fatherless, nor do I want to deprive the steward and prince of his firstborn and heir. Thus instead of a proper duel I suggest a training yard bout. Should you win, you will have the delight of humiliating me in front of your fellow rangers of the south. It may not be as satisfying of a vengeance as my death, but neither will it bring Elerrína to grief.”

Elboron considered the offer and found it acceptable despite the meager satisfaction. “Very well,” he said. “Choose your weapon.”

Araval took two broadswords from the rack and tested their weights in his hands before putting one back. When he turned around, he saw Elboron waiting in the middle of the yard. The steward's son held Zimrathôr's scimitar. Araval pursed his lips as he studied the unfamiliar sword for a moment. Then he turned his attention to his own wooden blade and adjusted and readjusted his grip while he slowly walked toward Elboron. He kept his head down and continued to adjust his grip until he was in reach of his opponent, and then he brought his sword up with a quick lunge. Elboron reacted just as quickly, raising the scimitar to block the blow, and he used the heavier sword to push Araval's wooden blade aside. 

With the surprise assault defeated, the two men made one circle before Elboron began his own attack, a vicious slicing stroke. Araval dodged it but was unable to offer an answer, instead stepping back and to the side, kicking up puffs of dust as he went. They circled again, and their labored breathing was the only sound in the yard ringed by onlooking rangers. Elboron lunged forward. Araval stepped to the side again, but as the scimitar passed his shoulder he grabbed Elboron's wrist with his free hand and pulled him forward, slapping the flat of his blade against the back of the other man's knee. Elboron grunted in pain, stumbled and hit the ground. He rolled onto his back but raised the scimitar too late. Araval pressed his sword tip to the fallen man's throat for a moment before he pulled it back and reached out to help him to his feet. Elboron sneered, turned away from the offered hand and pushed himself up off the ground. 

At the same time, four riders dressed in the king's livery entered the training yard. “We seek Araval son of Thalion, a ranger of the north,” announced the leader. “We were told he may be here.”

Araval returned his sword to the rack and said, “I am he.”

The rider dismounted, strode over and handed him a sealed message. “You have been summoned to appear before King Elessar without delay. We leave as soon as we receive fresh horses.”

Araval broke the seal and read through the short message before nodding. “Allow me time to speak with my wife.”

“Hurry,” the rider replied.

He found Elerrína still sitting with her mother in the gardens. His wife's eyes widened as he told her of the summons. “What does the king want with you?”

“It seems rumors of our hasty marriage have already reached Minas Tirith, and my cousin wants to speak with me directly to sort out the truth,” he answered. He leaned down to kiss her swiftly, then added, “And doubtless I will receive another chastisement for my indiscretion. I will return as soon as I am able.”

Elerrína stood. “I will go with you, for I bear as much responsibility as you in this.”

“No,” he said firmly but gently as he embraced her, “now your responsibility is to rest and save your strength for the birth.”

“A few days of journeying will not leave me weakened beyond recovery for a birth that is still months away,” she protested. They gazed at each other silently but steadily until she sighed and pressed her hand to her middle. “All right, I will stay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does it go from here? Good question. The document file has yellow notes off to the side and a secondary Notepad file has other ideas, bits of conversations, etc. Putting them all together into something coherent is another matter.
> 
> Somewhere along the way Elessar visits Ithilien to present the idea of creating a stewardship for Arnor in a similar fashion to that of Gondor since he splits time between the two realms. He then says that he wishes to name Ellerína steward. She protests, arguing that in Gondor the stewardship is mandated to be separate from the royal house, which she has married into. He counters with, "Am I not free to choose whom I will as steward, and cannot the heirs of this new stewardship be reckoned through their mother's line?" Then there's something about how she crafts with stone, so the hard heads of politicians should be a welcome relief. [Stuff happens.]


End file.
